Theatrical Muse Ficlets: Drake Parker
by GMTH
Summary: A set of ficlets written for the Theatrical Muse community on LiveJournal, where I play Drake Parker. Each week, the moderators throw out a question and we write a response from our character's POV. Ratings vary by chapter, T overall to be safe.
1. Books

A/N: This set of ficlets was written for the Theatrical Muse community on LiveJournal, where I play Drake Parker. Each week, the moderators throw out a question and we are expected to write a response from our character's POV.

**Question:** A friend asks you to recommend a book: which book would you choose and why?

**Answer:** Drake's not a big fan of books, but there is one from his childhood that means an awful lot...

* * *

"What are _you_ doing here?"

Drake stopped in mid-swallow and raised an eyebrow at Megan over the top of his Mountain Fizz can. The soda trapped in his throat burned on the way down, and he winced and tried to choke back a cough. "What?" he managed, lowering the can and swiping at his bottom lip with the back of his hand.

"Didn't you move out?" Megan said, easing her bookbag off her shoulder and dropping it on to the couch next to him. "I thought we were finally rid of you."

"Yeah, so? I can't come back to visit once in a while?"

"Not if you're going to steal all our food, you can't," she said, snatching up the bag of potato chips lying open against Drake's hip.

"Hey!" Drake swung his feet off the couch and grabbed at the bag, but Megan was too quick for him. She danced away toward the other side of the couch, stuffing a handful of chips into her mouth as she went. "I was eating those!"

"Yeah, and now I'm eating them. Just like you _used_ to have control of the remote." She dove over the back of the couch and plucked the remote off the cushion next to him a split second before the realization of what she planned to do had been relayed from his brain to his hands. "And now I do." She clicked a button and the smiling, singing face of Susanna Louisiana flashed up on the TV screen in place of the movie Drake had been watching. Smirking, she sat down on the other end of the couch and tucked the remote under leg.

"Aw, man," Drake grumbled, propping his feet up on the coffee table. "I hate this show."

"Yeah, well, the good news is you have your own place to go home to whenever you feel --" She turned her face toward him and frowned, her eyebrows coming together in a menacing glare that made a chill run down his spine. "-- unwelcome here."

"Ha, ha, ha," he said, with a bravado he didn't quite feel. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Very funny. Don't you have some homework to do or something?"

"Yeah." Megan sighed. "I have to write a stupid book report."

"What's so stupid about it? Didn't you read the book?"

"Oh, I read it."

"So what is it?"

"I don't know yet."

Drake screwed up his face in confusion. "Huh?"

She rolled her eyes. "I have to pick a book that is meaningful to me in some way and write at least five hundred words about it. But I have no idea what book to pick." She nibbled on a chip and glanced at Drake. "Any suggestions?"

Drake scoffed. "Pfft. Yeah, right."

"I'm home!" sang a voice behind them.

"Hello, Walter," they said together in a monotone. Neither of them looked away from the television as their stepfather lumbered into the room.

"Oh, Drake, good, you're here," Walter said, putting his briefcase down on the dining room table. "I found a few more boxes of your stuff in the garage. I want you to go through them and either take them with you or throw them out, you got it?"

"Mmm," Drake grunted, still staring at the TV.

"Good. Are you staying for dinner?"

The three of them exchanged amused looks. "Yes," they said in unison a moment later.

* * *

"So, how's the place shaping up?"

Drake finished chewing his mouthful and speared another bit of chicken on the tines of his fork. "Okay," he said, dragging it through the last traces of gravy clinging to his plate.

"You get everything unpacked?"

"Most of it." The important stuff, anyway: his guitars, an amp, some underwear, a few T-shirts, two pairs of jeans. None of the clothing had found its way into his dresser drawers, of course, but that was what the kitchen table was for, wasn't it?

"Did you finish hanging the curtains?"

"Mom." Drake couldn't keep the irritable edge out of his voice. "I told you I didn't even _want_ those curtains."

"But they're so pretty," his mother said, poking idly at a few wrinkled peas at the bottom of the serving bowl.

"I don't care if the place looks pretty," Drake replied, popping the chicken in his mouth. "I want it to look _cool_."

"Okay, okay. Sorry." She stood and started to gather up Walter and Megan's empty plates. "I just thought if you needed some help, I have the day after tomorrow off --"

"Yeah, no thanks." _Get a hobby, Mom. Jeez._

"I can pack up the rest of this chicken for you, if you like," she continued, stacking the dirty dishes next to the sink.

"Whatever." Drake drained the rest of his soda and plunked the empty glass down on the table.

"And then maybe next week we can do a little shopping, pick up a few of those --"

"I'm gonna go look through those boxes Walter mentioned," Drake said. The legs of his chair squealed loudly on the kitchen floor as he pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Out of habit, he gathered up his plate and silverware and carried them to the sink.

"Do you have to run off so soon?" his mother said as Drake thrust his burden into her hands. "Why don't you sit and talk with me for a while?"

"Can't," Drake said shortly, plucking a grape from the fruit bowl and tossing it in his mouth. "I have to look through this stuff Walter left and then get home. I've got a meeting in LA in the morning."

"Oh. Okay. Maybe I could help --"

The rest of her sentence was lost to Drake as the kitchen door swung shut behind him.

* * *

Drake snagged the workbench stool as he walked by and set it down in front of the pile of boxes Walter had left for him. There was one big box in the middle of the pile with the words "Drake's room" scrawled in black letters across the face of it. A few smaller ones lay scattered around it, their flaps hanging open to reveal a variety of items Drake recognized from his childhood. A battered teddy bear with a missing ear was hanging halfway out of one of them, and Drake bent over to scoop it up. "Oh, hey! Sergeant Sparkles!" he said with a smile, giving the bear's middle a gentle squeeze. "I wondered what happened to you." He glanced at the bear fondly for a moment, remembering how soft it had felt against his cheek when he was a kid. Then, with a quick glance over his shoulder at the door leading into the house, he shoved the bear back into the box and slammed the flaps shut over it. The last thing in the world he needed was for Megan to see him playing with a stuffed animal.

Pushing the box aside with his foot, Drake pulled the flaps on the largest box apart and peered inside. A musty smell assaulted his nostrils and he wrinkled his nose. He reached in and pulled out an old pair of pajamas. "Oh man," he said, tossing the garments to the floor, "I remember these." A few old shirts joined the pajamas, then a pair of sneakers barely bigger than Drake's palm. "Why did she keep this stuff?" he wondered aloud, now diving into the box with both hands.

The layer under the clothes was composed mostly of broken toys. A plastic army tank hit the floor with a clatter, followed by an action figure in fatigues with a missing arm and a helicopter with a busted propeller. Drake laughed softly to himself as he pulled a battered plastic guitar from beneath a faded baseball mitt. It had little multi-colored buttons on it instead of strings, each button corresponding to a different note. "Oh, wow," he whispered, pushing the buttons. The toy remained silent, its batteries long dead, but he tucked it against his hip anyway and mimed strumming it, humming softly. God, how many hours had he spent with this thing when he was a kid?

_This is definitely a keeper,_ he thought, setting it aside.

He rummaged through the rest of the box for a few more minutes, but found nothing else of interest. He was about to close the flaps and move on to the next box when a flash of blue caught his eye. Frowning, he reached down to the bottom and pulled out a small book with thick cardboard pages. Part of the cover had peeled away, so he turned it on its side to read the title on the spine. "_The Runaway Bunny_," he murmured, opening it to the middle. "Man, I forgot all about this."

--

_"Read this one to me, Mom."_

"Again?" His mom's voice sounded resigned. "Wouldn't you rather we read the one about --"

"No! This one."

"Okay," she sighed. "Tell you what, how about if you read along with me?"

"Promise to help me with the hard words?"

"Of course." 

--

**Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away. So he said to his mother, "I am running away."**

"If you run away," said his mother, "I will run after you. For you are my little bunny."

--

Drake shifted uncomfortably on the stool, recalling how he'd cut his mother off earlier in the kitchen. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate her offer to help, exactly. He knew she meant well, just... he wasn't a kid anymore. He wanted to do things on his own. _His_ way.

--

**"If you run after me," said the little bunny, "I will become a fish in a trout stream and I will swim away from you."**

"If you become a fish in a trout stream," said his mother, "I will become a fisherman and I will fish for you." 

--

_"Want me to help you with that?"_

Drake curled his lip. "Moms can't help boys learn to ride a bike. Dads_ have to do that."_

"Oh. I see."

"And since I don't have a dad anymore, I have to learn to do it all by myself."

"Okay. You go on ahead, then," his mom said, pulling a magazine out of her bag. "I'll just sit here and read while you're learning."

Legs quivering with a mixture of pride and excitement, Drake straddled the bar of his new two-wheeler. The bike was slightly too big for him, so he had to stand on his tiptoes in order to ease his backside onto the seat. The front wheel swerved as he struggled to put his feet on the pedals, and the bike collapsed to the ground, pinning his leg beneath it. He glanced up at his mother, who casually turned the page as though she hadn't noticed. Red-faced, Drake clambered out from under the bike and righted it, climbing atop it again. Three spills later, he had torn a hole in the knee of his jeans and his eyes were prickling with exasperated tears.

"Mom, can you help me with this?" he said, his voice thick with frustration, and his mother put her magazine down with a smile.

"Of course." 

--

After all, it wasn't Drake's fault he and Josh had both left home at about the same time. Mom still had Megan to take care of, and that should be more than enough for anyone.

--

**"If you become a fisherman," said the little bunny, "I will become a rock on the mountain, high above you."**

"If you become a rock on the mountain above me," said his mother, "I will become a mountain climber and I will climb to where you are."

--

_"What's the matter, hon?"_

"Nothing. You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"I'm just having problems with a girl, that's all."

"Oh, hey, that's right up my alley. I used to be a girl." His mother smiled and nudged Drake in the ribs with her elbow.

"Yeah, but that was a long time ago," Drake replied, pulling the tab on his soda can. It opened with a hiss and he took a long pull, watching her expression change over the top of the can as he did.

"Yeah, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth." She pulled the refrigerator door open and ducked her head inside, but not before Drake caught the hurt look in her eyes. It reminded him of Stacey and the way she'd looked that afternoon when she'd asked Drake what he thought of her new haircut. When he told her she'd looked better with her hair the old way, she'd started to cry and hadn't even stopped when he told her she was still the prettiest girl in the fifth grade, just now her face looked too big. In fact, that'd made her cry harder.

Maybe girls thought big faces were cool these days. Or maybe they didn't like it when you told them the truth.

Maybe... maybe his mom might be able to help after all.

"Hey, Mom," he said slowly, and his mother looked up from the vegetables she was chopping with a distracted frown. "Can I ask you a question?"

The frown morphed into a smile as the knife continued to clock against the cutting board.

"Of course."

--

No guy his age wanted his mother to help him hang curtains. No guy his age even _wanted_ curtains. Or lace doilies, or scented soaps, or little Tupperware containers filled with leftovers, or whatever other domestic horrors a well-meaning mother might try to inflict. He wanted a place where his buddies could put their feet up without worrying about staining the upholstery, or put a beer can down without worrying about leaving sweat rings behind. A guy's place, not a freaking museum.

Although now Drake came to think about it, that Tupperware thing might not be too bad. Sometimes -- though he'd never admit it aloud -- potato chips and sour cream and onion dip was a less than satisfactory dinner, especially now that he could have it any time he wanted. Sometimes, every once in a while, he missed his mother's fussy matching bathroom towels and the sweet smell of clean sheets and the coffee mugs without the layers of brown stains at the bottom.

Maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be such an awful thing to have her help after all. Just for a little while. Just long enough to make his place feel less like a "place" and more like a home.

Drake closed the book and picked up the toy guitar. He was halfway to the door when he stopped and turned around. With a furtive glance to make sure he wasn't being observed, he bent to retrieve Sargent Sparkles and stuffed it into his pocket. Walter could throw the rest of the crap away.

* * *

Megan was sitting at the dining room table scribbling furiously in her binder when Drake emerged from the garage. He snickered. "I'm so glad I don't have to do that stuff anymore," he said, stopping at her side to look over her shoulder. "Did you decide what book to use for your book report?"

"No," she said shortly without looking up. "Now bug off."

"Try this one," he said, tossing _The Runaway Bunny_ onto the table next to her. "It's a classic."

She lifted the book and turned a few pages, glancing at the pictures. "This book is like, two hundred words long. It would be the first book report in history that's longer than the book itself."

"Read between the lines," he said, plucking it from her hands. "There's a whole novel in there if you do."

"Ooh. When did you get to be so smart?"

Drake grinned. "I've just never been properly appreciated."

The kitchen door swung open and their mother walked into the room, carrying a vase full of freshly-cut flowers. "Oh Drake, you're still here? Did you finish looking through those boxes?"

"Yep," Drake said, rounding the table to approach his mother. "I'm just on my way out now."

"Okay," she said, placing the vase carefully on the end table. She cocked her head to study it, her lips twisted into a contemplative moue. "The leftovers are on the kitchen table if you want them."

"Great, thanks. And Mom?"

"Mmm?" She pulled one of the daisies from the arrangement and put it back in a different position.

"Feel like coming over on Wednesday to help me get those curtains hung?"

She looked up from the flowers, her eyes wide with surprise. Drake gave her an encouraging smile and dropped a light kiss on her forehead. After a moment, she smiled back.

"Of course."

**A/N 2**: Some passages taken directly from _The Runaway Bunny_ by Margaret Wise Brown. Used without permission. 


	2. 3:00 AM

**Prompt: 3:00 AM**

* * *

_June 14, 2008. 2:54 AM_

"You were _amazing_!"

Drake smiles and shrugs the strap of his guitar case higher on his shoulder. "Yeah, I know," he says modestly.

"I mean it, dude," Josh says. His face is lit up like a Christmas tree as he slides the key card through the electronic lock on their hotel room door. "I've seen you rock before, but tonight, you _rocked._" The light above the card slot winks green, and Josh wiggles the door handle. "It was incredible." The handle clicks, but won't turn. The light turns red again. "And the crowd!" he continues, sliding the card through the slot again. "Did you hear them chanting your name at the end?"

"That was the best part," Drake says. He can still hear it echoing in his ears. Two thousand people calling his name, stamping their feet, clapping, whistling... it was the sweetest music he'd ever heard in his life.

The light turns green, and Josh wiggles the handle again. "I mean, I thought you being on TRL was the most amazing thing I'd ever see, but this -- wow!" The door remains stubbornly shut, and Josh's grin fades slightly as the light flickers red.

"I know," Drake replies. "The whole live audience thing, what a major trip."

"How's it feel to be on your way up, brotha?" Josh says, swiping the card for a third time. The door handle still won't budge, and Josh gives the door a frustrated kick, cursing under his breath as the light turns red once again.

"In_cred_ible," Drake says. He jerks the key card out of Josh's hand and slides it through the slot. When the light turns green, he pushes on the door handle and the door swings open. Ignoring Josh's incredulous gasp, Drake pushes his way into their room. "Absolutely freakin' incredible."

* * *

_November 19, 2008. 3:07 AM_

The shriek of his cell phone's ringtone awakens Drake from a dead sleep, and it takes four tries before he can locate the damn thing on his bedside table. "'Lo?" he says, his voice gravel-edged with sleep.

"Did I wake you?"

"Josh? Why the fuck are you calling at -- " Drake squints at the clock. It takes his brain a moment to translate the pattern of red lines into numbers. " -- three o'clock in the morning? Where are you?"

"I'm at school."

"What?" Drake's head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton batting. He scrubs his eyes with the heel of his hand.

"School. Yale. Remember?"

"Yeah, okay. Yale. Right. Well, it was great talking to you, but -- "

"Don't hang up! I was just doing some research on the internet and I went to the Billboard website and have you seen it?" Josh says the whole thing in one breath like he's afraid Drake will cut him off before he can finish.

"Seen what, man? Drake says impatiently.

"_Uncertain Girl_, dude! It hit number one!"

Drake's heart stops. His mouth works frantically for a second, trying to form words, but the best he can manage is "Waba nngh saaa..."

Josh's happy laugh rings in his ears. "You heard my words! Your CD. Hit. Number. _One_."

"Oh, my God!"

"I know!"

Drake throws the blankets off and swings his legs over the side of the bed. "Oh, my God!" he says again, leaping to his feet. "Are you sure?"

"Totally sure, man! Go check it out for yourself, if you don't believe me."

"Josh, oh my God, this is the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me!" He rushes to his desk and throws himself into the chair, flicking the switch to turn on the computer monitor. "You better not be shitting me, bro."

"I swear I'm not."

Drake's fingers are shaking so much it takes three tries to spell the website address correctly. When the page finally loads, it's like all the air in the room has been sucked out at once. "Holy --"

Josh laughs again. "How's it feel to be number one, brotha?"

Drake can't answer. He can barely breathe. Nothing in the world could ever feel as incredible as this. Nothing.

* * *

_September 25, 2010. 3:01 AM _

It's 3:00 AM by the time Drake shakes off the entourage and makes it back to his hotel room. As the door clicks shut behind him, he pulls his blazer off and throws it over the back of a chair, thankful to finally be rid of the stupid thing. It reeks of Stephanie's perfume, which is bad enough when they're sitting in the same room let alone when he gets it on his own clothes.

Skunkbag. When's she going to get it into her head he's not interested? She should be grateful for the one time she got.

His head throbs as he crosses the dimly lit bedroom to the bathroom, shedding his clothes along the way. It has been a hellish day. He hates these marathons in LA, cooped up all day with the promotional guys. Photo sessions. Interviews. Handlers. He's a musician, not a trained monkey. Shit like this takes away from his time in the studio, which is the only thing that makes it all worthwhile anymore.

He turns on the shower and runs the water until it's nearly scalding. Not that things are going so well on his current project, he muses as he steps under the spray. He seems to be fighting with the guys in his band all the time now. Especially Brett. They used to see eye-to-eye on almost everything, but lately they can't agree on the weather, let alone anything else. The guy is completely unreasonable, not to mention totally incapable of admitting he's wrong, which he is about so _many_ damn things these days.

Drake raises his face to the stream of hot water and grinds his teeth. It's so weird, and so frustrating... he's one of the hottest acts in music right now, but it's just not enough. A year ago it would have been, but now he wants to be huge, a legend, someone people will someday mention in the same breath as The Beatles or Elvis. He knows what he has to go to get there, and he's trying, he really is, but everyone around him seems to be holding him back. He feels like a racehorse struggling to gallop, fighting the jockey who keeps trying to reign him in. Louis, his manager, keeps telling him to be patient, to just do what he's told and toe the line because all the ingredients for superstardom are there, he just needs to give the pie time to bake. Drake is seriously considering firing his ass. He's not a pie. He's a fucking star.

The sheets don't feel right against his bare skin when he slips between them. They're too stiff. He sighs. He left word with the maid yesterday morning to make sure he got _soft_ sheets tonight, dammit. With an irritated grunt, he rolls over and grabs for the phone. Someone's going to have to get out of bed to fix it, but tough shit. It's not his problem they are too stupid to get it right the first time. He's about to jab the key for housekeeping when he notices his message light is glowing. That's weird. All of his calls are supposed to be handled by his service. He tucks the receiver between his head and shoulder and punches the keys to retrieve his messages.

"Yeah, uh, hi Drake. It's me. Sorry to bother you. I haven't talked to you for a while, and I didn't realize you were out of town. Don't worry about calling me back. I just thought I'd touch base with you, see how things were going." Josh's voice grows soft. "I miss you, man." He clears his throat, and when he resumes speaking his voice is back at full strength. "Anyway, I'll catch up with you some time. Take it easy, bro."

Drake closes his eyes and lets the receiver drop to the sheets. Dammit. Yesterday was Josh's birthday. He'd forgotten all about it. Again.

Blowing the wet hair out of his eyes, Drake slams the phone down and falls back against the pillows. He'll call Josh in the morning to apologize. Maybe. If he remembers.

* * *

_July 28, 2013. 2:52 AM_

The night air is thick with moisture as Drake pushes his way out of the club. He takes a deep gulp of fresh air -- well, fresh compared to the smoky haze of the interior, anyway -- and out of habit looks around for his limo. A few paparazzi are grouped around the club entrance, cameras in hand. They start to buzz when he appears, and a few raise their equipment and train it on his face.

He turns away instinctively, raising his hands to hide his face, then stops. He turns back and gives them his best smile, but they are already lowering their cameras.

One of the younger ones jabs the man standing next to him in the ribs. "Who is that?"

The older man looks up, then down again at his camera. "No one important," he responds, blowing something off the lens. The young paparazzi lifts his camera anyway, and Drake turns up the voltage on his smile, but the older photographer bumps the younger one's arm. "Forget it," he says. "No one'll pay anything for that one. You're wasting your film."

Drake turns on his heel before they can see the change in his expression. He raises his hand and whistles sharply through his teeth at a passing cab.

* * *

_December 25, 2014. 2:58 AM_

His parents still live in the same house. Drake hasn't been home for Christmas for ages, but the place still looks the same. His mother still hangs the same old ornaments he and Megan made when they were kids, still puts out the same old electronic Santa with the wave that looks more like a karate chop, and the same old nutcracker with the teeth Drake broke trying to crack open one of Megan's geodes. The only thing that's different is she's using colored lights on the tree this year instead of the white ones he remembers from his childhood. He stares at the lights without really seeing them, his cold feet tucked under one of the sofa cushions, and tries to will away the sense of uneasiness that's settled in his stomach like a lump of wet cement since he walked through the front door.

Josh had been uncharacteristically quiet at Christmas Eve dinner the night before. He'd smiled and nodded at all the right places in the conversation, laughed at a few of Walter's jokes, and passed the platter of ham when he'd been asked for it, but hadn't once met Drake's eye, hadn't once spoken to him directly. It had been like having dinner with someone he'd just met and barely knew rather than someone he'd once felt closer to than anyone else in the world.

He'd hoped they could sit together for a while after dinner, maybe catch up a little, but Josh had excused himself early, claiming jet lag, and closeted himself in the guest room. This had caused no small amount of alarm, as Megan had brought her boyfriend home for the holiday and Josh had stolen his bed. After 45 minutes of heated discussion, in which Mom and Walter flatly refused to consider letting Joe sleep with Megan in her old room, it had been decided he should sleep in Josh's old bed.

Which led to Drake stumbling downstairs at 3:00 AM with a blanket and pillow in tow. Joe snores louder than Josh and Henry Doheny put together.

He's just settling the blanket around himself when he hears footsteps on the stairs. Josh stops in the archway at the bottom of the steps, and his mouth drops open when he sees Drake.

"Hey Josh," Drake says quietly.

"Hey."

"What're you doing up?"

"Thirsty."

Drake nods and turns away to look at the tree. He hears Josh pad into the kitchen, then the sound of the refrigerator door opening. Drake squints against the wash of light that hits his eyes as Josh pours something. The living room seems darker than before when the refrigerator door slams shut again. Josh is shuffling back towards the stairs, apparently intending to go straight back to bed, when the dam bursts in Drake's chest.

"Josh. I'm sorry."

The footsteps stop. Drake can see Josh standing there out of the corner of his eye. "What?" he says, his voice husky with confusion.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

Drake sighs. "For everything, man. For being a prick. For acting like such a shit. For treating you so bad." The Christmas tree lights blur as his eyes start to sting. "For being a total failure."

"Drake." Josh moves into his line of vision, one arm extended in front of him. "You're not... I never thought you were a failure."

Drake shakes his head. "There's nothing left for me, man. It's all gone. I had it in my hands -- " he balls both hands into fists and shakes them a few times, then opens them again slowly "-- and I threw it all away. All because I'm an asshole who thought he knew better than everyone else." He glances up at Josh, who looks like he's just been poleaxed. "Worst of all, I let it all make me forget about what -- who -- was really important to me." His voice cracks, and he looks away again.

Josh rounds the end of the couch and sits down, placing his glass on the coffee table in front of him. They sit in silence for a long time, a silence that seems to get heavier and heavier the longer it goes unbroken. Drake wonders what Josh is thinking, wants desperately to know, and yet dreads finding out because if Josh cuts him off he really will have lost everything that ever meant anything to him at all.

Finally, Josh chuckles and shakes his head. "How do you do it, man?"

Drake frowns. "What?"

"How do you always find a way to worm your way back in?" He meets Drake's eye for the first time in five years, and the lump of tension in Drake's stomach starts to dissolve. "By rights, I should be pissed as hell at you. And you know what I'm sitting here wondering?" Drake shakes his head, feeling the corners of his mouth start to tug upwards in response to the grin forming on Josh's face. "I'm sitting here wondering if that old ping pong table of yours is still out in the garage."

They laugh, and Drake suddenly feels like he's been filled with helium. "It is. I saw it when I was putting the garbage out."

Josh's eyes are twinkling. "Wanna play?"

"Now?"

"Why not?"

Drake tosses the blanket to the floor and they leap off the couch and head toward the garage door as one. They're halfway there when Drake grabs Josh and pulls him into a bone-cracking hug. "Thanks, Josh," he whispers. "Merry Christmas."

Josh squeezes back, and it's like someone is pouring sunshine all over Drake's body. "How's it feel to be home, brotha?" Josh whispers back.

"Incredible, man," Drake says, and they pull back and smile at each other before heading out the door. "Absolutely freakin' incredible." 


	3. Black and White

**Prompt: Black and White**

* * *

"Hey, Drake."

Drake meets Josh's eyes in the mirror. His brother's hair is wet and he's got a towel slung over one shoulder. "Hey," Drake says. His eyes move back to his reflection and he continues to comb his hair, but inwardly he's cringing. _Shit._ He'd meant to be gone before Josh got out of the shower.

"What are you doing?"

"What's it look like?" Drake drops the comb on the bureau and swipes at his bangs with his fingers. "I'm getting ready for my date."

Josh's mouth drops open. "What? You can't go out. We're grounded."

Drake snorts. "So?" He turns away from the mirror. "You gonna rat on me?"

"Well..." Josh shifts his weight from foot to foot, his expression tense. "No," he says finally, sounding disappointed with himself. He yanks the towel from his shoulder and tosses it onto his bed, his mouth set in an angry line.

"Cool," Drake replies, a tiny smile curling his lips. "'Cause Marissa is waiting and I do _not_ want to let her down."

"Marissa?" Josh says, flopping down on the couch with a book in one hand. "I thought you were dating Lyndsey. Or no, what's-her-name... Anna?"

"Pffft. They're both so last week." Drake grabs his keys off the desk and palms his wallet. "Hey, you want to come with me? Maybe Marissa has a desperate friend I can set you up with."

Josh pulls a face. "Ha, ha. No, thanks. We're _grounded_, remember? And I've got some studying to do anyway."

"On a Friday night?"

"Yeah, well, we've got that quiz on Monday. Besides..." His voice trails off and he looks down at the book in his hands.

"Josh." Drake sighs. "When are you going to get over Mindy? You guys broke up like, three months ago already."

"I know. There's just no one else I want to date right now, that's all." Josh opens the book and settles back on the couch, signaling an end to the conversation.

Undeterred, Drake steps up beside him and pulls the book out of his hands, turning it over so it's right side up before handing it back. "Whatever," he says. "Can I borrow a few bucks? I'm broke again."

"What am I, the First National Bank?" Josh says, his cheeks flushing, but he doesn't say anything to stop Drake when he crosses to Josh's desk and flips open his wallet. "You already owe me about five hundred dollars."

"I'll pay you back when I'm famous," Drake replies, stuffing two twenties into his pocket.

"Just be quiet when you get home," Josh says sternly. "I'm not going to cover for you if Mom and Dad find out."

"Yeah. Right," Drake says, giving Josh a lopsided grin as he heads toward the open window. He's not worried. If push comes to shove, he knows Josh will be there for him. Josh has always been the dependable one that way.


	4. Everything Passes

**Prompt: "Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that's how we've got to live." **

* * *

The bedroom window is closed when Drake gets home. He stands in the driveway staring up at it, his mouth slightly open in surprise. The lights are off in their room, too. A quick glance at his watch tells him it's a few minutes before midnight, way too early for Josh to be asleep on a Friday night, which means he's closed the window on purpose, and probably locked it, too. Drake could climb up on the ledge and try to talk Josh into opening it again, which will probably turn into a major ruckus that will almost certainly get him caught, or he can use his key and take his chances trying to sneak by his parents' -- and trickier still, Megan's -- bedroom.

Fucking A. First his date had sucked, and now this. If he'd known Marissa was going to start with that tired old "I want us to be exclusive" crap, he'd have told her he was grounded and spent the night watching movies with Josh. Now he's got to figure out the easiest way to dump her, and on top of that if he gets caught sneaking in he'll be grounded for another two weeks.

He creeps up the stairs noiselessly, his boots in one hand so they don't clack against the hardwood. He's been sneaking around this house all his life, so he knows every inch. Seven steps from the top of the stairs, take a giant step over the squeaky floorboard. Four steps beyond that, move to the left and be careful of the floor lamp. He gets past Megan's room with no problem, and breathes a sigh of relief that catches in his throat when he turns the corner. A thin bar of light is spilling out from under his parents' bedroom door. Shit. They're still awake.

He freezes for a moment, unsure about what to do. He wishes he'd thought to stash a pair of PJs in the bathroom so he could just duck in there and pretend he's washing up for bed; he'll have to remember that for the future. For now, though, he's just going to have to take his chances. He takes a few tiny steps on tiptoe, barely daring to breathe. He can hear the sound of his mother's voice as he approaches, then Walter's deeper tones in response. As he draws level with the door, he hears the sound of his own name and it stops him dead in his tracks.

" -- tell Drake and Megan?" Walter is saying, his voice muffled by the door.

"No," Drake's mother replies. "And I don't want you to tell them, either."

"Don't you think they have a right to know?"

Drake wrinkles his brow. A right to know what?

"No," his mother says again, more firmly this time. "I don't want him to have any contact with them."

"Honey -- "

"Don't 'honey' me, Walter. He doesn't deserve to see them."

"But he's their father."

Drake feels a sliver of ice slip down his spine. His father? What the hell? He knows it's courting disaster, but he can't help himself as he presses closer to the door.

"He's their father in name only," his mother says. "He hasn't wanted anything to do with them since he ran off with that little bimbo of his, and now all of a sudden he's in LA and they're supposed to accept him back with open arms?"

Drake's mouth feels suddenly dry. _His father._ He hasn't thought about his father for a long, long time. He barely remembers him now, and everything he does remember makes him hurt.

"I know, but -- " Walter says, but Drake's mother cuts him off before he can finish.

"Not one cent in child support. Not one card on their birthdays or for Christmas. No phone calls. Nothing."

His mother's voice is thick with anger and pain, and it makes Drake think about all the times she cried after his dad left. She tried to hide it, would get up and walk into the kitchen or flee upstairs so he wouldn't see, but he'd been pretty good about sneaking around the house back in those days, too. The sound of her sobbing always scared him, always made him wonder what would happen to him and Megan if his mom left, too.

"I know, but --" Walter tries again, with no better success.

"And he cheated on me for _years_ while we were married. One affair after the other. He couldn't keep it in his pants for more than twenty minutes at a time."

Drake's head starts to spin. He hadn't known this part. His mother never talked about his father, and he'd never bothered to ask. He'd only been six years old when his dad had left, and growing up it had never seemed important enough to ask about. Once the hurt had passed, indifference had taken its place.

But now he feels like he might be sick, right here in the hallway in front of his parents' bedroom door. His stomach clenches with a wave of nausea that makes his skin prickle. He remembers how he felt when he and Josh had thought Walter was cheating on his mom, how he'd tried to play it cool because he always played it cool around Josh, but how he walked around for days with his jaw aching because he couldn't stop grinding his teeth. He could have strangled Walter for what they'd suspected, and now he could happily string his father up by the balls and toast a few marshmallows while he screamed. How could he have been such a _bastard_?

"I know, but --"

"You know what really scares me, Walter?" Some of the anger has gone out of her voice now, but something new in her tone makes a knot of apprehension bloom in Drake's chest.

"What?"

"Drake reminds me of him so much."

The knot tightens, and for a moment it hurts too much to breathe.

"Audrey --"

"He _does_. All those girls he dates? He's never with any of them for more than a week or two. Ed was the exact same way. If I hadn't gotten pregnant --"

Drake can't listen any longer. He doesn't want to hear any more about what a miserable shit she thinks he -- no, not _him_, his _father_ -- is. He lurches away from the door and down the hallway toward his bedroom, heedless of the noise he makes along the way. He feels like someone has scooped out his insides and stomped them into the ground, and for a moment he thinks he might cry.

He's not like that, dammit. He's not.

He's _not_. 


	5. Unkind

**Prompt: Is there a situation when it is appropriate to be unkind?**

* * *

"You're an asshole, man."

Drake turns on his heel. Brett's cheeks are flushed a dull red, the color they only get when he's really drunk or really pissed. A muscle is twitching near his jawline. Drake feels his own face start to burn as he tosses the rolled-up magazine in his hand onto the table. "Fuck you."

Brett's fists curl into tight balls, and he takes a step forward. "Hey, Brett," Joey says, placing a placating hand on Brett's shoulder. "Take it easy, man."

Brett shrugs him off. "Fuck off, Joey," he barks, and Joey backs away with his hands in the air in front of him. "I've had enough of his shit to last me a lifetime."

"Yeah?" Drake says, flexing his own hands even though he'd never really throw a punch and take a chance on messing them up. He hasn't forgotten the night Josh put Devon Malone out of action. He just doesn't want Brett to think he's a pussy. "You know where the door is, then."

"Drake -- " Joey says, a note of warning in his voice, but Brett cuts him off.

"Yeah. I do." Brett snatches his jacket from the back of his chair and pushes his way past Drake, bumping him in the chest with his shoulder as he passes. He stops in the doorway and fixes Drake with a glare. "Let me give you a little piece of advice, okay? Before you blow your ride entirely. Stop fucking up -- "

"I don't want to hear this," Drake shouts, cutting a slash in the air with side of his had.

"I know you don't," Brett says through gritted teeth. "That's your whole goddamn problem. Just shut up for once and listen to what the people who know better than you have to say. You may be on top now, but a year from now you're going to be nothing if you keep this shit up. _Less_ than nothing. You'll be like those clowns we make fun of, the guys who -- "

"Get outta here, Brett," Drake says. He starts toward the door, longing to put his boot in the middle of Brett's ass and then slam the door shut behind him, but Joey grabs his arm and holds him back.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going," Brett replies. Drake closes his eyes for a moment to collect himself, and when he opens them again Brett is gone.

Behind him, Joey exhales loudly through his teeth and lets Drake go. "Way to go, Drake," he says bitterly. He turns and takes a swipe at the ride cymbal on his drum set. It falls to the ground with an ear-splitting _crash_.

Drake jumps, his heart pounding with surprise and anger. He turns to see Joey slumped in his chair, rubbing his face with both hands. For a long moment, neither speaks. Then Joey sighs and stretches his long legs out in front of him, crossing his feet at the ankles. "So," he says, hooking a thumb in each of the front pockets of his jeans, "what are we gonna do now?" He looks up at Drake with a frown.

Drake studies him with a sinking feeling in his belly. His old friend, Joey. Another one with no vision. No vision at all. No _idea_ of the kind of success they could achieve if he -- and everyone else -- would just listen to Drake and realize he knows exactly what he's doing. Drake's mouth goes dry, and he licks his lips to moisten them. "Don't worry about it," he says, trying hard to sound more confident than he feels. "He'll be back." 


	6. Surprise!

**Prompt: Surprise! Your arch nemesis is at the door at a most inopportune moment! Now what?**

* * *

"Oh, God, my eyes!"

Josh and Mindy spring apart as Drake throws one arm over his face, covering his eyes. He grins to himself as the soft, rustling _whoosh_ of clothing being hurriedly pulled back into place fills his ears. When it stops, he lifts his arm a bit and peeks out from under it. "Is it safe to look now?" he says, holding back a laugh. Their faces are both pink, and they are sitting at opposite ends of the couch looking as though the idea of touching one another had never occurred to them. Josh even has an open magazine sitting in his lap.

"That's better." Drake lowers his arm. "You're lucky it's just me," he says, twirling his key ring on his index finger. "Why would you do that in the living room?"

"We weren't expecting you home so soon," Josh mumbles, turning a page in his magazine with such force Drake is surprised it doesn't rip free. "Megan went to bed early, and with Mom and Dad gone for the weekend --"

"No," Drake says, jabbing one finger in Mindy's direction. "I mean why would you do _that_ in the living room?"

Mindy turns and shoots a glare in Drake's direction that could melt a block of ice. A _big_ block of ice. "You know what, Drake?" she says, narrowing her eyes. "If I ever need a brain transplant, I'd choose yours because I'd want a brain that had never been used."

Drake pulls a face. "Aww, what's the matter, did you get up on the wrong side of your cage this morning?"

"So, Drake," Josh says loudly as Mindy takes a breath in preparation for the next salvo. "What brings you home so early? I thought you had a date."

"I did." Drake tugs his jacket off and tosses it on the dinner table. "But I'm totally beat from all the running around I did this week. I ditched her at The Premiere and came home to get some sleep."

"Ah, good," Josh replies. "Then you'll be heading on upstairs now, right?" He jerks his head in the direction of the stairs as he speaks, his lips set in a grim line.

"In a few." Drake grins slyly. "And what'll you two kids be up to down here?"

"Oh, you know," Josh says, waving one hand in the air. He's trying to sound casual and failing miserably. "This and that."

Drake crosses his arms across his chest. "I see. Hmm. You have protection, right? And by that, I mean a paper bag to put over her face, of course."

Mindy gives him a cold smile. "Why, Drake. I do believe you're jealous."

"Of you?" Drake jeers.

"Of the fact that Josh and I are here together, and you'll be upstairs all alone." Mindy juts her bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout.

"Oh, _please_," Drake says, rolling his eyes. "I'd _rather_ be alone than hang out with you. And for your information, I do just fine on my own. I've got some _amazing_ porn upstairs that I --"

"Excellent," she replies, cutting off the lie mid-stream. "Then you can finally have sex with someone you love."

Drake opens and closes his mouth like a winded fish, casting about frantically for a good comeback. "Oh, yeah?" he starts, and then falters.

"This would be a great time for you to become a missing person," Josh says. The magazine slips to the floor as he rises from the couch and points toward the steps.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm going, I'm going." Stifling a sigh of relief, Drake turns and walks toward the arch leading to the stairs. "Just remember to keep your eyes closed, Josh. You don't want to burn out your corn... cobs, or whatever they're called."

"Corneas!" Josh and Mindy shout in unison as Drake starts up the steps.

* * *

"Megan, what are you doing in our room?"

She's sitting with her legs propped up on the couch, staring at the TV. "What does it look like?"

"Can't you watch that in your room?"

"No," she replies, her eyes still glued to the screen. "My TV's broken."

Drake glances toward the set and does a double-take. "Why are you watching Sesame Street?"

"Can't find the remote."

Drake blinks. "Oh. I see," he says, shaking his head. He crosses the room and climbs the ladder to his loft. "Time for you to go now."

"No."

"C'mon, Megan," Drake whines, collapsing on his bed. "I've gotta get some sleep."

She continues to stare at the screen without responding. Kermit the Frog is singing a love song about the letter M.

"Okay," Drake says wearily. "I'll drive you anywhere you want to go for a whole weekend if you'll get out of here right now."

"A month."

"A week."

"Two weeks."

"Ten days, and that's my final offer."

She finally looks up at him. "Done," she says, an evil smile curling her lips. Drake's stomach does a flip-flop. He should know better than to make an open-ended bargain with Megan like that. She'll probably drag him all the way to Alaska.

"Hey, hey, hey, turn off the TV before you go," he says as she rounds the couch and heads towards the door.

"No, I don't think so."

"Megan!"

"Our deal was that I would leave," she says, opening the door. "You didn't say anything about turning off the TV. Night, boob."

Drake groans and screws his eyes shut. He's so exhausted the trip down the ladder and across the room to the TV feels like the distance across the Grand Canyon. "Fuck it," he says, toeing off his sneakers. They fall to the ground at the foot of his bed with twin thuds, and he pulls the bedspread over himself. It's not the first time he's slept with the set on, and probably won't be the last.

Yawning, Drake rolls onto his back and settles his head back on his pillows. The mattress feels oddly lumpy tonight, and he shifts his hips, trying to find a more comfortable spot. No good. Something rough is digging into the small of his back. Drake slides his hands beneath his body and feels around. Aha. No wonder. He's still got his belt on.

A practiced flip of the wrist and he's got the buckle loose, but the length of the belt is pinned by his weight. He yanks at the buckle once, twice, three times with no success, and moans at the thought of the struggle it's going to take to get the thing free. He gives the buckle a few more half-hearted tugs and arches his hips up a bit, grunting with the effort, but it seems to have no give in it at all.

A sudden gasp from across the room makes his eyes fly open. Mindy is standing in the doorway, one hand covering her mouth. Josh is at her elbow with his mouth hanging open. Mindy recovers quickly and drops her hand, her lips twisted into a smirk. "Well, that didn't take long," she says, staring pointedly at Drake's midsection. The blanket is tented around his hands, which are still moving, seemingly of their own accord. Drake's heart slides into his stomach as he realizes what this must look like.

"Oh, no, you don't understand --" he says, but Josh cuts him off.

"Dude!" he shouts, waving his hands in the air. "Do you _mind_? The least you could do is _stop_ it while we're standing here!"

Drake pulls his hands out from beneath the blanket and sits up in bed. "This isn't what it looks like," he says, yanking the bedspread up to his chest to cover himself, which he belatedly realizes is a ridiculous thing to do because he's still completely dressed.

"I hope not," Mindy replies, her eyes twinkling with malicious glee. "Because what it _looks_ like is you jerking off to Sesame Street." All eyes turn toward the set, where Elmo is now dancing with a barnyard full of pigs. Drake's heart heads south of his stomach and down toward his knees. "Is this the _amazing_ porn you were talking about?"

"I'm _not_ --"

"It's your wish come true, Drake," Mindy crows. "You're finally going to be famous. You'll be the lead story in the school newspaper with this!"


	7. Freudian Slip

**Prompt: Freudian Slip**

* * *

"Hey, Drake."

Drake looks up sharply, his attention jerked away from the stack of mail in his hands by Josh's voice. He's halfway through the puff of breath that will form the "H" in the word "Hey" in response when he stops short, his mouth dropping open slightly in surprise.

Josh is leaning against the kitchen counter, a bottle of spring water in one hand. His hair is damp and tousled, molded into the shape of the cycling helmet tossed upside down on the kitchen table. His cheeks are flushed a dull red, and sweat glistens on his face and neck, soaking a dark inverted triangle into the front of his T-shirt. Drake's eyes trace its shape from Josh's collar down to his navel, and then, almost against his will, drift further. The shirt's hem flops over the waistband of a pair of shorts made of some clingy black material, so tight they fit like a second skin. Drake feels his eyes grow wide as he realizes every bump and curve of Josh's crotch is outlined in sharp relief.

Drake swallows against the sudden dryness in his mouth. When he was a kid, he saw a movie about an astronaut on a rocket to the moon. A meteor hit the rocket and ripped a jagged hole in its side, and the astronaut was sucked out into space, gasping desperately at the last of the oxygen as everything in the cabin rushed past him with a _whoosh_ of escaping air. Drake spent most of the following week wondering how that must have felt. Now, he knows.

"Hey," he croaks in return, but it comes out more like "Hey-ay-ay" as his eyes roll down the length of Josh's body. It seems to take forever for them to make the trip, but when they snap back up to Josh's face he can tell Josh didn't even notice. He clears his throat. "Been riding?" he says, tossing the pile of mail onto the island next to the stove. It's a stupid question and he knows it, but he's got to do _something_ to get his brain out of that place it has absolutely no business being.

"Yeah," Josh says. He raises the bottle of water to his lips and drinks deeply. His entire neck works as he swallows, every muscle tensing and relaxing in turn. Water drips down his chin to mingle with the sweat on his neck, and Drake suddenly thinks he knows what it might have felt like had that astronaut flown too close to the sun, too.

"So, uh." He casts about frantically for something to say. "What are you doing home, anyway? I thought you were supposed to work tonight." There, that's good. He's still able to form coherent sentences, at least.

"I was," Josh says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"So what are you still doing here?" Drake replies, glancing at his watch. Any excuse to have something to look at other than Josh and His Amazing Wonder Shorts. "I thought your shift started at four o'cock."

Josh gives him a funny smile. "What?"

"Four o'_clock_," Drake says, his cheeks heating. "I thought your shift started at four o'_clock_."

"Oh. Yeah, it did. Or it would have, anyway, but um... I don't work at The Premiere anymore."

"What? Why? What happened?"

"You know that guy Gordon, the one that replaced Helen after she got married?"

"Yeah."

"Well, he decided he wanted to choose his own assistant manager. One who had better tits than me, I guess." Josh sighs. "She started yesterday."

"Oh man, that sucks. I'm really sorry."

"Thanks. He said I could have my old job back if I wanted it, but I just couldn't go back to wearing a red vest after getting to wear the yellow one."

"I don't blame you, man." Okay, this is okay. He's got it back under control now. The whole thing was just a surprise, that's all. He's not really interested in Josh's junk. No way. Not --

Josh shifts his weight from one foot to the other and reaches around to put the bottle of water on the counter behind him. The tantalizing bulge hidden just out of sight shifts with him, and Drake's eyes zoom back to it before he can help himself.

_Fuck._

"Maybe you're better off," Drake manages, tearing his eyes away as Josh turns back toward him. "That guy's been giving you shit for a while now, right? You don't need to work for someone like that. He was suck a dick."

Josh's funny smile returns, this time accompanied by a furrowed eyebrow. "What?"

"_Such_ a dick. I mean he was _such_ a dick. Wow," Drake says with a forced laugh that sounds fake even to his own ears. "I don't know what's wrong with me today." His cheeks are glowing now, he can tell. Maybe he should shove his head in the refrigerator until he can get it back together.

"Yeah, I guess," Josh says, and Drake stifles a sigh of relief. Somehow, he's managed to dodge yet another bullet. "I really loved that job, though," Josh continues, "and now I have to find another one, quick. I need the money for school."

"Well hey, I can help you look," Drake says brightly. He pulls one of the kitchen chairs out from under the table and turns it around to straddle it backwards. "I bet there are tons of jobs to choose from." Walter's discarded _Union-Tribune_ is on the table, and Drake pulls it toward himself.

"It's okay, Drake," Josh starts, but Drake is already rifling through the employment section.

"Let's see," he says, burying his face in the paper so he can't see Josh as his stepbrother moves closer. "Personal assistant, physical therapist, insurance sales, receptionist --"

"Nah, none of those are any good," Josh says, leaning over Drake's shoulder to look down at the paper. "I need something part-time." With a sinking heart, Drake realizes Josh's magical crotch is now directly at his elbow. So close that if he just turned his head a little bit, he could --

"Oh. Yeah. Right." Drake clears his throat and turns the page. "Here we go. Part-time jobs. Let's see, uh... Cashier, telemarketer, security guard, dental assistant... Hmm..." He pulls the paper higher but still can't manage to block the glorious view from his peripheral vision. "Oh, here's a good one. This guy's looking for someone to do blowjobs."

"Drake --"

"I mean _odd_ jobs. Dammit!"

"Drake, are you okay?" Josh places one hand on Drake's shoulder and gives him a gentle shake.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Drake replies weakly, looking up into Josh's face. "Odd jobs, Josh, doesn't that sound good?"

Josh chuckles and pulls his hand away. "Yeah. That sounds great. Thanks." He scoops his helmet up off the table. "I'm, uh... I'm going to take a shower. See you later."

Drake waits until he hears Josh's footsteps on the stairs before he closes his eyes and slowly drops his head to the table. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he chants softly, smacking his forehead against the table top with each repetition of the word.


	8. Bad News

**Prompt: Write about a time when you were the bearer of bad news. **

* * *

The school bus pulled away from the curb with a roar as Drake ran up the driveway, bookbag bouncing against his back, a piece of red construction paper clutched tightly in one hand. "Debbie, Debbie!" he called, his voice bubbling over with excitement. "Look what I did!"

The door swung open as he approached, and Drake stopped short. Instead of the babysitter he had been expecting, his father emerged carrying a large suitcase in each hand. A duffel bag was slung over one of his shoulders. "Drake!" he said, taking a step back in his surprise. "I -- you startled me."

"What're you doing home so early?" Drake said, excitement giving way to disappointment. "Isn't Debbie here today?"

"She's here," Drake's father said curtly, regaining his composure. He pushed past Drake and moved off down the driveway, his expression tense.

"Good," Drake said, smiling, as his father dumped the suitcases on the ground behind the SUV. "I wanna show her this." He waved the paper in his hand in his father's direction, but his father was too busy opening the tailgate of the SUV to notice. "Miss Cortez said it was the best drawing in the class."

"That's good," his father said absently, still not looking at him. He swung the duffel bag over his shoulder and tossed it into the SUV.

"Ed, I can't find the -- oh, Drake!" Debbie's face flushed bright red as she caught sight of Drake, and the overstuffed brown paper bag she was balancing in her arms nearly toppled. "Oh, my God, is it after 3:00 already?"

"Debbie, lookit my picture!" Drake demanded, thrusting his paper in Debbie's face, and she balanced the bag against her hip and used her free hand to take hold of it.

"Oh, it's very nice," she said, her brown furrowing as she studied it. "Very nice, Drake." She smiled uneasily and handed it back, giving Drake's father a nervous glance.

"It's a lion!" Drake said proudly, snatching it out of her hand. "I drawed it --"

"Yes, yes, very good," Drake's father said, slamming the tailgate shut again. "Now listen, Drake, go put your stuff in the house and get started on your homework. We have a few more things to pack up here, and then I'm going to drop you at Mrs. Futch's house. You'll stay with her until your mom gets home."

"Ohhhh," Drake whined. "Why do I hafta go there? Isn't Debbie going to baby-sit today?"

"I won't be babysitting you anymore," Debbie said softly. "I'm uh... I'm moving. To... to Wisconsin."

"And I promised to drive her," Drake's father added, cutting off the protest forming in the back of Drake's throat. "So I can't stay with you, either."

"Do you hafta leave right now?" Drake said, looking from Debbie to his father and back again. Neither would meet his eye. "Can't you wait 'til Mom gets home? I don't want Mrs. Futch. I hate her!"

"Too bad," his father said firmly. "Go put your things in the house, and be quick about it."

"But Daaaaad --"

"Go!"

Drake snapped his mouth shut and stomped into the house, glaring. What a crummy afternoon _this_ was going to be. Instead of games and snacks with Debbie, he was going to have to spend the afternoon getting yelled at to be quiet. No TV. No guitar. No milk and cookies. Just fruit and yucky books and Mrs. Futch's mean old cat hissing at him all day long. "This stinks," he muttered, plopping down on the couch and crossing his arms over his chest. He looked up surreptitiously every time his father or Debbie trooped by with another armful, hoping they'd notice he wasn't doing what he'd been told, but they both seemed way too busy to care. He'd never realized Debbie had kept so much of her stuff at their house.

Finally, Drake's father came into the living room and stood over him. "Did you do your homework?"

"No." Drake suddenly felt like crying, though he wasn't exactly sure why.

His father sighed. "Why didn't you... Oh, the hell with it. Come on, let's go."

"When are you coming home?" Drake asked, as his father locked the front door behind them. His father didn't reply, but the look on his face made Drake's stomach feel like a bunch of rocks were whamming around inside it.

Debbie was already sitting in the passenger seat when Drake clambered into the car. "Does Mom know you're not going to be my babysitter anymore?" he said, clicking his seatbelt into place. Debbie didn't answer him, either. She just shook her head and made a noise that sounded like she was crying and clearing her throat at the same time.

Drake's father climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door. "No," he said gruffly, yanking the seatbelt down across his shoulder. "She doesn't know." He turned halfway in his seat and looked Drake in the eye. "You tell her, okay?"

Drake held his gaze for a long moment. He didn't want to tell his mother anything. He had a horrible feeling something bad was going on, something nasty he didn't understand. He wanted to ask about a million different questions (_When? Why? How?_), but something in the look on his father's face told him to keep his mouth shut.

"Yeah, okay," he said finally, as the engine rumbled into life. He turned his head and looked out the window. "I'll tell her." 


End file.
